


Machines

by Novelti



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Bucky Barnes Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Dissociation, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, One Shot, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24275110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novelti/pseuds/Novelti
Summary: "You know what I like about machines, soldier?""They need no rest. No food, water, care. They need no silly... emotional connections.""They need no correction. They follow their programming.""So tell me why... you are so different?"
Kudos: 13





	Machines

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at like,,, 2 am when I couldn't sleep so it's basically a plot-less word vomit of whump... enjoy?

Damp, low-lit and fuzzy. His perception of the room felt like he was looking through a grainy security cameras, and that was without adding the nausea that left the impression of having vertigo. The room was spinning without him even making an attempt to move- and he curled over himself to spill his guts on the gritty, stone floor.

"Disgusting." Murmured the man standing feet away from him, yet it sounded muffled, with a constant ringing comparable to tinnitus. A dull ache throbbed away at the base of his skill as he hurled again, fingernails digging into the sharp stones that pierced his palms

"Are you done?" The voice had a twinge of a Russian accent, though it was faded from years of not speaking the language. Bucky shakily wiped the bile off the corner of his mouth, moving to sit up straight despite the stabbing pain in his gut. "Yes, sir."

The man scoffed, lifting his foot to place the ball of his shoe on Bucky's chest, enjoying the way he did not move to protest, just followed the movement until his back was against the cold floor, a black boot placed sturdily on his ribs.

"You know what I like about machines, soldier?" The man began applying pressure, eyes flashing with a glint of pure sadism as he observed the asset's unmoving expression. "They need no rest. No food, water, care." He stopped at an uncomfortable weight, something that wouldn't hurt but would certainly restrict the assets breathing. "They need no silly... emotional connections."

"And," He leaned forward, digging his heel somewhere between Bucky's fifth and sixth rib. It was then pain blossomed in his chest, though he had no intention of showing it.  
"They need no correction. They follow their programming."

"So tell me why..."

The mans full weight was suddenly placed upon Bucky's chest, and he let out a wheeze of pain as he felt his lungs constrict, his ribs nearly breaking under the pressure.

"...you are so different?"

Bucky inhaled, a sick sound that came as more of a rattling wheeze than a breath. The man smiled, seemingly satisfied as he gently lifted his foot from Bucky's chest. The brief moment of peace didn't last very long though, as the man brought his foot back to deliver a hard kick to the assets head.

He seemed to curl away, eyes squeezing shut as the pounding headache only got worse and caused him to fight for consciousness. If he passed out, it was a known fact that when he woke up the punishment would only be so, so much worse.

"Oh Steve! Please! Come save me!" The man sang in a mocking tone, walking over to the opposite end of the room to retrieve something- Bucky couldn't tell what it was- his vision was swimming and it looked like constant motion blur even when his eyes focused on the rocky ground.

"Captain American is a fuckin' fantasy that died long ago, get over it."

Bucky knew this. They'd shown him the newspaper. That had been truly the last straw to break the camels back. Yet in moments when he was out of cryo for too long, or he had suffered a specifically awakening head injury, if was almost as if it was the forties again. When Steve was alive, the hero that could save him all over again.

But that was a fantasy that was made apparent long ago.

"Get your ass up, soldier." The man said firmly, and the soldier complied.

It took a couple tried and the room spinning way too much for Bucky to lift himself off the ground, but eventually he got there, not even flinching at the way the ground pierced the soles of his bare feet.

"Wakey wakey..." Leather patted his cheek and he realized way too late what was to come. In his hand, the handler held a Sjambok, also known as an african whipping stick. If the method had been used against him before, which was likely, he didn't remember. That was the worst part. Not knowing what to expect.

In fact, he barely remembered why he was in that situation in the first place. All he knew is he felt exceptionally human in that moment- which wasn't exactly a good thing in hydra's books, nor his own.

"Remove your shirt, Soldier." His handler commanded, and Bucky wasn't about to get himself in a worse situation by disobeying, so he shakily pulled the blood-soaked shirt over his head, moving to fold it.

Before he could even begin, the man swung back the whip and brought it down hard on Bucky's flesh shoulder, causing the recipient to cry out in pain. He almost dropped the shirt as his arm spasmed, but his metal hand stayed clenched around the fabric, preventing what could've been a horrible mistake.

"Fold it." The man said as he traced the brown leather along the seeping gash he'd left, eying Bucky's expression with an unmasked fascination.

The soldier winced, but otherwise tried to hide his pain as he slowly folded the shirt, each movement of his arm only causing the gash to tear open further, leaving blood to drip down his arm and further into the equally stained shirt.

"Pants, off." The handler followed with, finally retracting the whip as he watched, waiting for the command to be met, as it always was. Bucky, of course, continued to obey as he undid the belt, stepping out of the black cargo pants and began to fold those too. Being left in only his boxers had him realize how utterly cold the room was, although it wasn't too much of a bother compared to what he was acclimated to.

"Clothes on the table." He motioned with the whip to a stainless steel table sitting nearby against a wall. Bucky said nothing, moving to neatly place his clothes when the whip was brought down on the back of his knees. The delicate skin of his popliteal fossa split open and he yelped, knees giving out and causing him to collapse on the rough ground, winding him and causing the clothes he had oh so neatly folded to splay out before him.

He choked on air, not daring to move, thinking he was wanted in this position. That was proven wrong with a strike across his shoulder blades, tearing a muffled scream from his throat as yelling filled his ears.

"What are you doing!? Stand, soldier! Can't even accomplish a simple fucking task!"

The voice sounded distant in his ears. The thoughts filling the assets head only consisted of pain, a tearing at his back that worsened with the slightest movements. He couldn't stand, couldn't move.

Paralyzed, helpless.

Another crack, leather slicing open the small of his back and he screamed. The pain was blinding- red and angry and certainly not dull. It invaded his mind as images of previous punishments appeared.

He was crying.

Actually crying.

The handler noticed.

"Is this a machine showing emotion? Didn't know that was possible."

Crack. His thighs burned.

"Get it together, soldier."

Crack. Gashes crossing gashes across his back, painting an ugly image of seeping red tears.

"You are nothing."

Crack. He was numb. He couldn't even feel where the whip was hitting, only that is was there, tracing along his nerves and lighting them on fire.

He couldn't hear himself anymore. Couldn't hear his handler, either. Not even the cracks of the whip were apparent. All he could make sense of was the feeling of separation, as if he was watching everything happen from the outside, in slow motion. He could see his face contorted in pain, mouth agape like a fish out of water. He could see the devilish sneer of the man above him, and he could see blood. So much blood.

But over all that, he could see a face. Manifested perfectly within his mind was blue eyes, blonde hair, and the warmest smile. It brought him comfort when the world around him started to fade, and when the handler laid his last strike upon his bloodied back.

"Wipe it, then throw it in cryo. We'll wake it when it's actually useful."


End file.
